


The Excellent Adventure of the Detective and the Fugitive

by shadydave



Series: Sherlock Pond [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Fix-It, Gen, Of course Sherlock is a Pond, ROAD TRIP WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO, Wholock, You just lost the game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadydave/pseuds/shadydave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is it so wrong to just want a road trip with my little brother?”</p>
<p>“For you? In twenty-seven countries. And aren’t you supposed to be in prison?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Excellent Adventure of the Detective and the Fugitive

_4\. Over southern Pakistan_

Irene Adler had begun the day planning to die, and ended it squeezed into an ancient helicopter with Sherlock Holmes, but she was nothing if not flexible. 

Demonstratively so.

“Kind of you to rescue me,” she said.

“I was in the area,” he said, busy scrolling through her confiscated phone – her ticket out of this place, as it were. “It seems you’ve been a bad, bad girl.”

"But of course,” she said. “The question is: have you been a good boy?”

He ignored her.

“That _is_ mine," she said.

"Boring," he said, and plucked off her headset, throwing it carelessly out of the helicopter. The pilot said something – "Sherlock, this is a loaner," she thought, but lip reading was difficult in this light.

Sherlock smirked. Some people always had to have the last word.

Without access to the intercom, the wind and engine and rotors made civilized conversation quite impossible, so Irene entertained herself by examining by touch the contents liberated from Sherlock's pocket.

Wallet. Small knife. String. A microscope slide. Thin tube, four inches long, detachable lid, slightly waxy substance inside – really?

Her fingertip tingled after 30 seconds and went numb. She smiled inwardly. Yes, really. Either Sherlock had had his own run of sentiment and brought her the perfect present, or he had some previously unsuspected depths. He really was quite fascinating.

The pilot brought them down after several hours. Gujarat, Irene thought. Gujarat was good. She had several contacts in Ahmedabad and she knew just what they liked.

The pilot disappeared into the darkness, and Sherlock continued to ignore her even after they both climbed out of the helicopter. She pulled out her compact and checked on the severity of her windburn. Then she took out the tube of lipstick and put it on.

“That shade looks awful on you,” he said finally.

“Selection has been a bit limited of late,” she said. “May I have my phone back now?”

“No,” he said.

“Surely you’ve had enough time to determine there is very little of interest on it,” she said. It rankled, but there was a _reason_ she had almost been beheaded on camera.

“Of course,” he said, “but that’s hardly an argument for why I should give it back.”

“How about this?” she said, and kissed him.

“That’s—” he began.

His pupils dilated and his pulse raced under her fingers.

Then his eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed against the side of the helicopter.

“—Chrrrrrrtrg,” he finished.

“Mr. Holmes, if you insist on remaining in ignorance of the significance of a woman’s makeup, I can hardly be accused of exploiting your weakness,” she said, and plucked the phone out of his hand. “Smile for the camera.”

“But Mummy, Jupiter is _boring_ ,” he slurred as she snapped a picture. Limbs sprawled, hair mussed, a hallucinogenic lipstick stain slightly off-center on his own lips, and a thin trickle of drool trailing down his chin: adorable.

She patted him on the cheek and gave him a gentle push. He slowly fell over as she climbed in the cockpit. The safety margin of the fuel tank should be enough to—

The pilot was waiting for her, gun drawn. With her headset and goggles off, she looked unfortunately familiar.

“ _You_ ,” said Irene.

“Hello, sweetie,” said River Song.

 

_2\. London, earlier_

“Err, Sherlock,” said John, peering out the window. “Why is there a double-decker bus sitting outside our flat?”

“Just ignore it, and it will go away,” he said.

The bus honked. Sherlock muttered a few choice deprecations under his breath and pulled on his coat. “Wait here,” he said to John, and went downstairs.

The woman in the driver’s seat had her feet up on the dash and was reading a newspaper from 1941.

“What are you doing here?” said Sherlock.

“Answering your call, dearest,” said River Song.

“I didn’t call you.”

“Ah, right. Do me favor and give me a ring when we get back, then? You know how Dad fusses when we forget to close a time loop.”

“Get back from where?” he asked, refusing to rise to the bait.

She handed him a photograph. Analog camera, not digital. The developer had some sort of palsy. GEO News watermark – Pakistani, most likely from Karachi. Taken around sunset, probably late February. Slightly out of focus, but the third woman from the left was still recognizable as Irene Adler.

“Why?” he asked.

“Is it so wrong to just want a road trip with my little brother?”

“For you? In twenty-seven countries. And aren’t you supposed to be in prison?”

She grinned. “Well? Are you coming or not?”

Sherlock climbed inside. “I hate traveling by bus,” he said.

“So do I,” said River, as it lifted off the ground.

 

_6\. London, later_

It was a bad sign when John took one look at him as he walked in and started snickering at his laptop.

“Been having fun, have we?”

“ _No_ ,” said Sherlock. “And someone has replaced my photo on your blog with a rather more compromising candid.”

“It’s not your best angle,” said John. “You’ve seen it already?”

“I _was_ there when the picture was taken,” said Sherlock grumpily. “She was bound to post it somewhere with optimal embarrassment value.”

“Who was?” asked John.

“My sister,” said Sherlock, ostentatiously snapping open the _Times_.

“You have a sister?” said John, astonished.

“Sometimes,” said Sherlock. He thought of something, and peered over the top of his paper. “Turn your laptop around.”

John did, suppressing another snicker.

The picture was horrible, though it did lack the grafitti’d mustache that graced those from his eighteenth birthday. It had taken him forever to track down and destroy the contemporary copies (and a few private servers); the proofs, unfortunately, were somewhere in the 51st century.

“Well,” said Sherlock, “at least I’m not wearing that damn hat.”

 

_7\. Still London_

Sherlock returned from re-timing train rides around the new construction on the Tube to find his sister sitting on his couch, reading John’s blog on his laptop. He ignored her and went to set up his microscope instead.

“Well?” she asked.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“I know you've read my diary,” said River. “Let's hear it.”

“Aren't you afraid of _spoilers_?” he drawled.

“You'd have to be wrong, in that case,” said River.

He sighed gustily, but at least his sister was generally more interesting to analyze than the pack of average morning commuters, most of whom had not been pleased at Sherlock sniffing their coffees.

“Out of prison, I see,” he said.

“I'm frequently out of prison,” said River.

“Not permanently,” he said. “You're wearing a Cleric's reserve uniform – desert camouflage, which rules out your stint in the Gamma Forests. You're covered in rock dust, but your boots have traces of sand and soil in the laces: Clerical jurisdiction suggests Alfava Metraxis. You could have been excavating the Aplan Moratorium during your futile quest for tenure—”

“Watch it,” said River.

“—but the soil is clearly non-native, so botanical garden or greenhouse – or spaceship. I'd go with the latter, because the creepers wrapped around your ankle appear to contain fiber optic cables. Damaged oxygen factory would suggest the _Byzantium_ , confirmed by the splash pattern of grav-globe serum burns on your left uniform leg.”

“Nice catch.”

“Thank you. The crash of the _Byzantium_ means you've finally completed your community service. Your face is made-up, which means Mummy came to meet you at the Storm Cage and brought you your travel kit, and there's a splash of mid-rate Riesling on your right cuff, which means you went to see Mummy about twenty years earlier in her timeline. She doesn't ever waste wine, so she must have been upset when she missed refilling your glass; obviously not at you, given your reprieve, so that must have been when you told her the Doctor was still alive.”

“Oh, you’ve figured that out?” said River. “Good, I forgot to write down when I told you. The early twenty-first century is such a pain. Too many overlaps.”

“That’s why I never write anything down. You would only drop by here after seeing Mummy and Dad still bedraggled from a mission if it were important, and since you haven't once removed your gun to check the safety or the cartridge or to dismantle it all over my kitchen table and clean it with my toothbrush—”

“You deserved that. You _did_ read my diary, after all.”

“—Then the news must be good. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, dearest.”

“Did you tell Mycroft yet?”

“No, I still like you best. There’s just something so entertaining about the way you can list 51st-century Clerical jurisdictions but forget that the Earth orbits the sun.”

“Irrelevant information. Not even you can interfere with gravity on a stellar scale.”

The door opened downstairs. River raised an eyebrow.

“John returning from Tesco’s,” said Sherlock. “Be careful, he might actually be a faster draw than you.”

“Can I challenge him to a duel?”

“No.”

John put the groceries on the kitchen table and walked in. “Oh, are you meeting with a new client?” he asked.

“No,” said Sherlock again.

John did a double-take. “Is this your sister?” he asked delightedly.

Sherlock hmmphed.

“He only makes that face when Mycroft’s around,” John explained. “Doctor John Watson,” he said, shaking her hand.

“Doctor River Song,” she replied. “I’ve heard so much about you, Doctor Watson. Or, well, I will.”

“…Yes?” said John. “He hasn’t told me much about you, unfortunately.”

“Well, I’ve only just got out of prison,” said River. John blinked at her.

“You, err. Don’t look very much alike,” he blurted, then grimaced.

"She's had work done," said Sherlock.

"He dyes his hair," said River.

“Boring!” said Sherlock, shoving the microscope into a desk drawer and stalking out of the room.

“Liar,” said River, grinning.

 

_3\. Over the Mediterranean, earlier_

“Mycroft is concerned about your virtue,” announced River.

“A holdover from the urge to promote the family gene pool,” said Sherlock, just to be contrary. He was at something of a loss as to the general fascination with his sex life.

“You know how I feel about 21st-century Evolutionary Psychology, Sherlock. I _will_ shoot you.”

“I'll tell Dad.”

“He'll agree with me.”

“Not about the shooting.”

“Oh, right. Fine. Tell me about this Irene Adler.”

"Why? You've met her already.” It was a shot in the dark, but an obvious one. River had a fondness for consummate troublemakers.

A raised eyebrow. His point.

He grinned.

“Well, if you're going to be that way,” she said, but amused, not annoyed. “Do you love her?”

“Love is a chemical imbalance resulting only in destructive behavior.”

“You say destructive like it’s a bad thing. Have you been listening to Mycroft again?”

“The woman indulged in sentiment and lost the game. I don’t intend to make the same mistake.”

“Sentiment isn’t the same as love, you know,” said River.

“There’s a certain amount of situational irony in having _you_ argue that love is more than an unhealthy co-dependence.”

“Ohh, bitchy, dearest. Very bitchy. You _have_ been listening to Mycroft.”

Sherlock glared at her and began rummaging through her belongings. Diary, energy pistol, scanner, hallucinogenic lipstick, personal reader, trowel, string, banana. The tools of the trade for your average ex-assassin prison escapee/archaeologist.

“As long as you know I disagree with you,” she said serenely.

“That’s hardly an effective argument,” he said.

“I don’t intend to argue the point,” said River. “You’re perfectly capable of deducing it yourself.”

“I have.”

“I should say, of deducing the truth of my statements when you have _all_ the required information.”

“I fail to see how it’s your business.”

“Because I made it mine. I’m sure you’ve noticed I like to meddle,” she said. She returned to her original topic. “I think Mycroft's more concerned for your _actual_ virtue," she said. “You saw how that Coventry business rattled him.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise.

“I’m hardly the appropriate person to argue the merits of normal socialization,” said River. “But when you’re playing the game, if everything goes _boom_ , make sure you can put it back together. Or you have someone else who can," she said. "The whinging is unbelievable, and fleeing the country – or the planet – loses its shine after the third relocation or so. And there’s always some people you won’t want to leave behind."

“I’ll take it under consideration,” said Sherlock, then: “ _Boom_. Is that the noise time made when you almost destroyed it?”

“It was more of a _fwoomp_ ,” she said. “Like I said: the whinging was unbelievable.”

 

_1\. Brooklyn, New York, much earlier_

“But I don’t know anything about babysitting,” said River.

“Don’t actually sit on the baby,” said Dad.

“Dinner at six, bed at nine,” said Mummy. “Local time.”

“No one in this house should blow anything up,” said Dad. “Look after your brothers, we’ll be back soon.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” said Mummy, entering coordinates on the Vortex Manipulator.

“Don’t do anything _I_ wouldn’t do,” corrected Dad, and they both disappeared.

“Melody, he’s drawing on the globe again,” said Mycroft, just to be tiresome.

River wandered over and looked at his penciled-in notations. “Ocean currents and average wind speeds?” she asked.

“He wants to be a _pirate_ ,” said Mycroft with great loathing, and went back to _Also Sprach Zarathustra_.

“Make sure you take hurricane season into account,” said River. She handed him an eraser. He hesitated, but then rubbed out his latest calculations for September.

“You know,” she said, “if you became a privateer instead, Dad would probably teach you to sword-fight.”

“A privateer?”

“Most of the fun, a steadier paycheck, and one less side shooting at you,” said River.

Sherlock stopped writing. “I’ll take that under consideration,” he said.

 

_5\. Gujarat_

“He’s right, you know,” said River Song. “That shade doesn’t suit you at all.” She held out her left hand. Irene dropped the lipstick into it.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I'm giving you a warning,” said River Song. “You see, I'm not sure if the great Sherlock Holmes has a heart at this point, and I don't think he's sure either. But if he ever does, and you break it, I will find you.”

“And make me pay?” said Irene.

“Worse,” said River. “I'll make you sorry.”

“ _If_ you find me,” said Irene. Hiding was not her preferred escape route, but River Song didn't need to know that.

“I'll find you,” said River. “I have all the time in the world when it comes to helping my baby brother.” She smiled pleasantly.

“Ah,” said Irene. “For such a devoted sister, there’s really very little record of you.”

“I'm rarely around,” said River. “That's why I have to make it count.”

“So you flew all the way out here to threaten me into staying away from your brother,” said Irene. “Why _did_ you rescue me, Doctor Song?”

“Threaten?” said River Song. “You misunderstand me, Ms. Adler. That was a friendly warning. You can tell them apart because I haven't shot you yet. I am, after all, a great admirer of your work.” She offered her hand.

Irene shook it. Firm grip. Distinctive calluses.

“Now, if you'll give me your phone,” River said pleasantly, gesturing with the gun.

“You won't get anything off without me,” said Irene, handing it to her.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” said River. “You are correct to a certain extent, Ms. Adler. There is no technology of which you are aware that can successfully remove the contents of your phone.” She plugged Irene's phone into the top of a device that looked a bit like a cross between a GPS system and a Gameboy, pushed a button, and pulled it back out. “There, that's sorted.” She handed the phone back to Irene.

“Everything's still on here,” said Irene, glancing briefly through her sub-folders.

“Of course,” said River. “I only wanted your picture of Sherlock.”

“Which is also still on here,” said Irene.

“I know,” said River. It came up on her viewscreen. “Darling, isn't it?”

“Zzmmg,” said Sherlock from below.

River smiled. “As my dear brother will no doubt deduce when he awakens, the only way to learn how to win is to keep playing the game. Good day, Ms. Adler.” She tossed a compass to Irene, who caught it. She then handed her a canteen. “I believe you'll find a small town approximately ten kilometers east of here. We will of course be some time refueling.”

“You're not fueling the helicopter,” remarked Irene.

“How astute of you,” said River.

“Have a lovely day, Doctor Song,” said Irene.

“You, too,” said River. “It was a pleasure to finally meet you. Well, face-to-face.”

Irene raised an eyebrow. “Did Moscow mean so little?”

River winked. “Spoilers,” she said.

Irene laughed and turned to the east. Victory, however brief, was invigorating, though the game continued. There was really only one ending, but today Irene Adler would not have to face it.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Libraflyter! We started _Sherlock Pond_ before "A Good Man Goes to War," but really it makes perfect sense that River is Sherlock's older sister. And then I fixed the end of "A Scandal in Belgravia," because even crossovers gotta have some respect for canon, AHEM, MOFF.
> 
> My geography is a sham. Sorry.


End file.
